


The Musain Speakeasy

by espetrell



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Genderbending, Prohibition Era AU, tw: implied off-screen domestic violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espetrell/pseuds/espetrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 1920s, and Prohibition is in full swing in America. Grantaire, a disillusioned drunkard, joins up with a group of feminists led by the extraordinarily attractive Enjolras. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The speakeasy was loud and packed, but that was just how Grantaire liked it. She enjoyed being able to melt into the crowd and get roaring drunk on beer so watered down you could hardly taste it. Money was tight, but what could she do? Anything was better that going home to her deadbeat husband. But, as Grantaire knew, there was no way to live completely free of male domineering, and women had obligations to their husbands. She had to go home eventually.

Or did she? On this particular night, Grantaire was staring into the bottom of an empty bottle and wondering if she could afford another when an energetic group of young women burst through the door. There were about 10 - no, 8 - and almost all wore the shortest skirts and bob cuts they could conceivably get away with. Grantaire watches them excitedly chat as they claim a spot in the corner, but is about to dismiss them as less important than getting more booze when she catches sight of the girl in red. 

The girl’s bright red evening dress was what caught Grantaire’s eye, but what held her attention was her undeniable beauty. Slim and holding herself with perfect elegance, her bright blue eyes blazed out from beneath blonde curly bangs. Before Grantaire knew what she was doing, she was slipping through the crowd to hear what the girl had to say. 

“ _Mes amies_ , the march is next week, and I need everybody here to give it their all. How can we convince the government to give us the right to equal representation if we back down before our voices are heard?” The girl was obviously trying to keep her voice down, but passion prevailed. Her words were clear from where Grantaire was standing, fascinated but a little let down. Feminists. They’d already gotten the vote; why did they need to ask for rights they could never get? But Grantaire couldn’t turn away. As if having heard her thoughts, another woman, this one in glasses and seemingly more composed, interrupted in a lower voice. Grantaire strained to hear. 

“Enjolras, not to be a wet blanket, but we need to be careful not to overly antagonize our representatives --“ The girl in glasses was cut off by a cheery swear of dissent from a girl with a split lip and hair so short that Grantaire had to double-take to make sure she wasn’t a boy. 

“’Ferre, you are a wet blanket, but Bahorel, we can’t just go into the White House and punch the President in the face until he gives women equal pay,” another woman broke in tranquilly, absentmindedly weaving a flower into her long braid. “Courf, weren’t you going to tell us all about what Pontmercy told you?”

“That’s right,” said a woman with thick black curls, leaning forward, “This dame named Maria Pontmercy has a grandpa in Congress and she said that she could get us into the meeting that some politicians are having to decide whether to allow our march. Her grandpa’s a total square and is definitely not sympathetic to our cause, but she’s got some great connections in his staff.” 

The women sat for a moment, absorbing the information, before the stunning girl apparently named Enjolras reached over the table and clapped the one called Courf on the back. “Excellent, Courfeyrac, well done. Give me that girl’s number later on; I’d like to talk to her myself. I think that our priority for today is drafting the pamphlets. Any other concerns?”

“I’m a bit worried about our ability to distribute these around the city,” said a woman older than the rest and with a slight European accent (perhaps Polish?). “I’ve got my factory work day and night, and I’m sure that’s true of most others here,” - some of the girls nodded in agreement - “and since we all live pretty close, I don’t know if we’ll be able to get the word out too far.”

“Maybe I can.” Grantaire regretted the words the second they left her mouth. The whole group turned to stare at her, and it was all she could do not to chicken out and run off. The judgmental eyes of Enjolras, in particular, struck her to the bone with fear. But she swallowed and continued.

“I- I hadn’t heard anything about the march up until right now, but…but I like the sound of what you’re doing. I live up in the tenements,” - she hated to admit it, but might as well - “and I think there’d be women there who’d like to help out.” _Me included_ , she wanted to say, but it was too early to commit to following their hopeless dream. But it was the most hopeful thing Grantaire had heard in a while, and as Enjolras’ glare broke into a smile and the girls scooted closer together to make room for another chair, she couldn’t help but hope. At the very least it would give her something to do, but maybe these feminists were right. Maybe she could be free.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a really great 1920's slang dictionary, go here: http://www.dinnerandamurder.com/themes/20s/1920slangdictionary.pdf
> 
> I tried to use as much slang as I could without making it unreadable. Please ask for clarification or correct me if I used something wrong!

"But why does she even show up?" Courfeyrac asked contemplatively. It had been days since Grantaire had showed up at their Les Amies meeting offering to help, and none of the girls had figured her out yet. When she had introduced herself she had said that she was interested in their activism. But ever since then, Grantaire's only contribution to discussion had been to mock and call into question their ideals and beliefs. And yet she seemed perfectly happy to distribute flyers and assist them in other ways. The _amies_ were baffled, and it was a mystery why Enjolras didn't snap and kick her out of their meetings in the first place.

"Grantaire! Don't talk to me about her," Enjolras would snort derisively when the subject came up, occasionally even when Grantaire was still within earshot. Grantaire's countenance would always darken when that happened, and although she said nothing, some of the _amies_ would notice her drink from her perpetual bottle of booze with particular intensity. Even so, Enjolras did nothing to dissuade her from coming, unlike with Pontmercy, who had turned out to be a real annoying gal. Enjolras had even asked after Grantaire on the one occasion that she hadn't shown up to a meeting.

The whole affair remained an impenetrable mystery to the _amies_ until the day of the march. Grantaire had distributed the pamphlets as promised and the turnout was surprisingly high. Enjolras was so excited about the attendance and so engrossed in organizing the protesters that she did not notice the mysterious absence of Grantaire. However, the other _amies_ did not let this escape their notice.

“Where is she?” hissed Feuilly in her thick Polish accent.

“Why does she help us out if she doesn’t even bother showing up?” Prouvaire wondered in a small sad voice, tugging at her braid reflexively and scanning the crowd. She suddenly stiffened. “Look there! It’s the law!” The other women looked in the direction of her pointed finger, where there was indeed a uniformed policeman walking towards the assembled crowd. “Damn!” groaned Courfeyrac in frustration. Sensing trouble, Bahorel began to push through the crowd to get closer to him, and the rest followed behind her. More policemen could be seen now, hanging around in alleyways where they could supervise the protesters.

The policeman that Prouvaire had seen first was now standing next to Enjolras, engaged in deep discussion with her. All of a sudden, Enjolras began to yell angrily at the cop. The _amies_ began to frantically push through the now chaotic crowd to reach Enjolras. They could not tell what she was shouting, but a couple words here and there told them that the cop wanted to break up the protest. Caught up in indignant fury, the _amies_ burst through the mob of women, just as the cop lost his temper and took a swing at Enjolras’ face with his baton.

Enjolras hadn’t expected the attack, and stumbled back with a wail, holding her head in her hands. With a feral cry of rage, the _amies_ leapt forward, but they were not the first to arrive. From where they stood several yards from the scene, they could hear the crack of a wooden beam striking the cop’s shinbones. With a scream of his own, he fell to the ground, gripping at his legs. Grantaire stood behind him, still in her work clothes, chest heaving from the exertion of swinging the beam with such force. Her eyes still blazed with wrath when she raised her eyes from the cop on the floor to meet those of her fellow _amies._

“Grantaire!” cried Combeferre, “You came!” The rest were either too shocked to reply or had run to Enjolras’ side to check up on her.

“Guess I got to take the fall for this, gals,” said Grantaire with nothing more than annoyance as she watched cops break away from the shadows and run towards the scene of the scuffle.

“Sister, you’re going to be wearing some iron bracelets soon!” warned Bossuet as one of the cops pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

“Joly!” Grantaire called out, and one of the girls leaning over Enjolras straightened up. “You were a nurse in the war, right? Do you know if she’s going to be alright?”

“I think so,” Joly responded, “She went unconscious for a couple seconds and she must have gotten a minor concussion, but she’s waking up.”

“Good afternoon, copper,” Grantaire calmly greeted the first policeman to reach the scene. “I suppose you’re going to want to lock me up, huh?”

“We’ll need to take you in,” the policeman replied, not entirely unkindly, “I don’t know what’ll happen from there.”

“I don’t want to give you any trouble. Just don’t break up this rally here. All we wanted was to make our voices heard. We had a permit and everything,” Grantaire pleaded as the policeman started to lead her away. The _amies_ exchanged slightly baffled looks. Grantaire had never been so intent on having a rally when they had been planning it.

“I guess they’re not arresting Enjolras,” whispered Combeferre, watching the rest of the policeman talk to the one who had attacked Enjolras. “Good for them, she didn’t attack anyone.”

“Do you think Grantaire did that on purpose?” Courfeyrac suggested, “Did she take the blame for Enjolras?” The group considered that, and Prouvaire shook her head.

“Who even knows what goes on inside Grantaire’s head,” she declared, to the general agreement of the rest of the _amies_. They then forgot about Grantaire completely when a groan came from Enjolras on the ground, and they turned to find Enjolras trying to sit up. Joly restrained her, telling her that “you can’t get up yet, your head got hit really bad.”

“Who…” Enjolras’ words were slurring together, and she made a visible but unsuccessful effort to recover. “Who…took him down? I think…I thought I saw…”

“It was Grantaire,” explained Bahorel.

Enjolras frowned. “Gr…Grantaire? She came?”

“Apparently she did,” Bahorel shrugged.

“She saved your behind, I guess,” Bossuet added contemplatively.

“Where’d she go? I wanna…I want to thank her,” Enjolras said agitatedly, trying to look around. Joly had to physically hold her back from getting up.

“She’s with the police,” Combeferre told her. Enjolras’ expression turned horrified.

“This is my fault,” she nearly wailed, “I didn’t mean for her to-“

“Ssh,” Joly said hurriedly, as disconcerted as the other girls at Enjolras’ distress. The concussion had no doubt temporarily scrambled her brains, but none of them could remember Enjolras ever showing that much concern for Grantaire.

“I suppose I would be that worried if she’d gotten arrested beating up a copper for my sake,” mused Courfeyrac, coming to the same conclusion as most of the other _amies_. None of them understood the full significance of what they had seen at that very moment, but it planted the seed of an idea in Bahorel’s mind as she walked home that night. It would not be long before the _amies_ found out the secret of why Grantaire cared for their cause.


	3. Chapter 3

Bahorel flopped onto the floral print couch that sat in the middle of her and Prouvaire’s living room with a groan. Even without the commotion that had occurred at the rally, it had been a tiring day. It was not long before Prouvaire entered the apartment  and shoved Bahorel’s legs over to sit down beside her.

“What a day, huh?” Prouvaire murmured.

“God, yeah,” Bahorel moaned. “Do you know what in the world happened?”

“I asked Enjolras once she recovered and she told me that the copper tried to convince her that women couldn’t be intellectual enough to protest.”

“Dumb copper, then,” Bahorel laughed, “but that wasn’t the only thing I don’t get.”

Prouvaire understood without having to be told, a product of the longevity of their close relationship. “Well, I can’t help you there. Did you see how angry she was? It actually really scared me.”

“What I don’t understand is how much danger she put herself in,” Bahorel continued, “Putting herself in prison? And Courfeyrac is right - the copper would’ve arrested Enjolras if she hadn’t knocked him down.”

“Even that was a big risk to take,” Prouvaire added, “How did she know he wouldn’t arrest them both?”

“It was so dumb that it might just mean she gets let out early on a verdict of temporary insanity,” Bahorel joked. But Prouvaire was lost in deep thought and didn’t smile.

“But _why_?” She wondered aloud.

Bahorel sighed, but she thought she might have an answer. So she asked Prouvaire another question: “Look, when Grantaire gives her opinion-“

“When has she ever done that?” Prouvaire interrupted.

“Don’t be like that. You know she has. I’ve been thinking it over, and…did you see where she was looking? Who she was talking _to_?”

Prouvaire furrowed her brow, obviously thinking back to their previous Les Amies meetings. Then she straightened up, wonder in her face. “Enjolras.”

“That’s what I thought,” Bahorel exclaimed, vindicated.

“And something else, too,” Prouvaire went on, “Once she cornered me and asked me if Enjolras was married. I told her she wasn’t, and asked why she wanted to know. She started saying something, then got all flustered and said she was just curious. I didn’t think anything of it, but…” She glanced at Bahorel, who had sat up in attention and was gazing at her in interest.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bahorel said cautiously, not wanting to voice her suspicions. Bahorel was actually rather proud of herself for being so observant of social cues, but didn’t want to push her luck. So she wavered, watching the gears work in Prouvaire’s head, trusting the other woman’s judgment better than her own.

“People say that opposites attract,” Prouvaire finally said, “And Grantaire does seem to be much more… devoted to Enjolras than to her cause. You know what? I think you’re right.”

“If Grantaire is crushing on Enjolras, then everything makes sense,” Bahorel agreed, deciding to stop dancing around the issue and spit it out. Prouvaire didn’t react to her bluntness, just nodded and spoke again.

“Tell you what, ‘Rel, I think we should ask everyone else what they think.”

“We’d have to make sure neither Enjolras nor Grantaire were there,” Bahorel reminded Prouvaire, but she only smiled wider.

“Enjolras is going to visit the police station to see how Grantaire’s doing next weekend. We can meet up here, it’s been a while since we did that. And I’m aching to make those banana muffins that I read about in my cookbook,” Prouvaire offered cheerfully, and was prevented from continuing her sentence by a longing moan from Bahorel.

“If you make banana muffins, there won’t be a single late arrival. You’ll have people hovering outside your door hours beforehand,” Bahorel said dreamily. Prouvaire was the most feminine of the _amies_ , finding pleasure in things like floral print everything and baking that Bahorel never could. But if it meant Bahorel got to eat delicious baked goods every day, she wasn’t about to complain.


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh, god, these _are_ delicious,” Courfeyrac moaned thickly around a mouthful of muffin.

“I know, right? And I don’t even like banana!” Bossuet said delightedly, leaning over to pick a second muffin off of Bahorel and Prouvaire’s coffee table.

“What is it you wanted to talk about?” Combeferre asked, pushing up her glasses, “You started to tell me, but Enjolras walked in. Is it a secret?”

“Sort of?” Prouvaire answered from the kitchen, yelling over the clink of silverware.

“We think that we finally figured out Grantaire,” Bahorel continued. The reaction was immediate.

“Really?” Joly said excitedly.

“Finally!” said Feuilly, leaning forward intently.

“We think that Grantaire has a huge crush on Enjolras,” Prouvaire announced, walking into the living room, wiping her hands on her dress. The rest of the _amies_ stayed silent for a minute, processing that information. Then heads began to nod.

“That explains a lot,” Bossuet said slowly.

“It _does_ ,” added Feuilly, “Now I kind of feel bad for Grantaire.”

“Why?” asked Courfeyrac with a confused frown.

“It’s just…,” Feuilly said sheepishly, “She must really love Enjolras if she’s willing to put herself through all the shit Enjolras gives her for being so darned cynical about everything.”

“Enjolras isn’t that bad!” Combeferre started to say, then paused a second, “Wait a second. Never mind. She kind of is.”

“Combeferre, you have a point,” Prouvaire interjected, “Enjolras does like her.”

“She definitely likes her more now,” Joly asserted, “The whole time I was fixing up her nose, she was in a daze, but she kept coming back to Grantaire stopping the copper from attacking her again. She was pretty shocked.”

Before any of the _amies_ could respond to that, there was a knock at the door. Bahorel went to open it, and Enjolras swept into the room.

“Enjolras! You’re really early!” Bossuet declared, halfway between happy to see her and confused as to why she was there at all.

Enjolras was breathing heavily, as though she had run to reach them quickly, and couldn’t speak for a moment. Joly took the opportunity to get up and check on the bandages that protected Enjolras’ nose from further harm. Finally, Enjolras spoke.

“She wasn’t in prison,” she proclaimed, “She hasn’t been for a week.”

“What?” the _amies_ gasped in shock.

“But we’ve had, what, three meetings since then!” Combeferre exclaimed.

“How’d she manage to get out so quickly?” Bahorel demanded.

“The cop I asked told me that she didn’t even hit the cop that hard, so no lasting damage was done. He inflicted much more injury on me than she did to him, so they’re not charging her in the hopes that I won’t charge him,” Enjolras explained, speaking so quickly that it was difficult to understand her.

“Has anyone seen her since then?” Courfeyrac asked the group, but only received “no” in response from everyone else.

“She knew about the meetings, right? Why would she miss them? She _always_ comes,” wondered Feuilly anxiously.

“Something’s up,” agreed Prouvaire sadly.

“I don’t even know where she lives,” Enjolras stated, concern clear on her face, “Does she live with someone?”

“Are you kidding? She’s married!” Bahorel exclaimed, “You didn’t know that?”

“What?! No, I didn’t!” Enjolras said, “She’s never mentioned a husband to me!”

“She likes to pretend she doesn’t have one,” Bahorel explained, “To say she doesn’t like him would be an understatement.” Grantaire had drunkenly confided this information in Bahorel, who had become one of Grantaire’s closest friends among the _amies_ , one night not long after she had joined their group.

“I asked to visit her once, but she told me that her husband wouldn’t approve of her having us as friends if he knew,” Joly said thoughtfully, “I don’t think we can know what happened to her unless she starts coming back to our meetings again.”

Enjolras gave a sigh and threw herself down on the couch next to Prouvaire and Bahorel. “Pass me one of those muffins, I’m starving,” she said resignedly, “Nothing we can do.” Enjolras was right, so the other _amies_ reluctantly followed her wishes and the conversation turned to other topics.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARINING for implied off-screen domestic violence.

The next meeting that Les Amies had at the Musain Speakeasy was tense. No one could concentrate on the planning of future marches or the creation of new pamphlets. Gazes kept wandering towards the door, and finally Bahorel put down the stamp she was supposed to be making pamphlets with and pushed back her chair.

“We aren’t getting _anything_ done, gals,” she sighed. “I’m going to get another bottle from the bar.”

Her friends nodded their consent, and she walked over to the bar. She was about to call over the proprietor when she took a good look at the hunched figure slumped on the bar to her left.

“Grantaire!” she gasped in surprise. Grantaire curled up into herself and did not raise her head from where it was buried in her arms.

“Whaddya want?” came a slurred groan, muffled in Grantaire’s bare arms.

“Jesus, Grantaire!” Bahorel exclaimed. Grantaire was almost never separated from a source of alcohol when she was at the speakeasy, but Bahorel had never seen her this drunk. “What the heck are you doing here like this?”

“Numbs,” Grantaire drawled, “Booze numbs. Didn’t wanna…want ya to see me this way.” She still refused to remove her head from between her arms, and Bahorel began to become alarmed. The other _amies_ had by this point figured out that something was going on, but on an impulse, Bahorel held up a hand to stop them coming over. She needed to figure out what was wrong, and she was fairly sure a whole crowd of people descending on Grantaire wouldn’t help the situation.

“See you like what?” Bahorel asked cautiously. For a moment she thought that Grantaire wouldn’t answer, but after a minute of silence Grantaire slowly and carefully lifted her head. She had to do so carefully because the whole left side of her face was covered in the worst black eye and bruise combination that Bahorel had ever seen, and Bahorel had suffered some pretty serious bruises herself.

“Goodness!” Bahorel gasped, fighting the impulse to slap her hand over her mouth in surprise. “What happened to _you_? Was it the copper?”

“Nah,” Grantaire winced, “He was ‘aight. But Francis…” Grantaire winced again, but Bahorel was pretty sure that this time the cause wasn’t her physical pain.

“Is Francis your husband?” Bahorel asked, the initial shock giving way to fury. “Did he do this to you?” She heard a gasp from the table where the rest of the _amies_ sat, and Joly sprang up and ran over to Bahorel. Grantaire started and tried to hide her face with her arm again. Her motor control was impaired enough by the alcohol that she didn’t do a very good job, and Joly could see the injury very clearly. Joly exchanged disgusted looks with Bahorel, who mouthed the word “husband” so Grantaire couldn’t see.

“Francis…” Grantaire eventually managed to say, “he was fu…fur…angry that I hit a copp’r…said he don’t need cops up in his biznis...busi…screw it.”

“Do you want to come back with us?” Joly asked carefully, “We can help.”

“Nooooo,” wailed Grantaire, suddenly agitated, “Don’ need help! I don’ wan’…”

“Well, too bad,” Joly said, losing her temper, “You’re coming with us.” And taking Grantaire by the arm, she began pulling her towards their table. Grantaire was too weakened by her injury and her drunkenness to resist, and stumbled along after Joly to an empty chair. Bahorel followed behind.

“Left the bottl’ b’hind…” Grantaire moaned, “ _Fuck_ , ‘t _hurts_ …”

“I can imagine,” said Enjolras, who was staring in horror at Grantaire’s black eye along with the rest of the group.

“Wait,” Bahorel said all of a sudden, regretting it when Grantaire flinched back, “Why doesn’t your husband want the police to-“ Suddenly realizing what Grantaire had implied, she fell silent, but Grantaire had understood the question.

“Dirty scum,” she said with venom, “’f he goes to jail f’r th’ shit he done, I’ll…I’ll jump fer joy.” The _amies_ looked at each other, but no one knew exactly what she was talking about. It wasn’t too difficult to guess, though.

“Sh’ldn’t ‘ave said tha’…” Grantaire slurred, “This ‘s the kinda shit that he-“ But even as intoxicated as she was - her friends couldn’t help but wonder how much watered-down beer she’d had to drink to get that sloshed - she restrained herself from finishing her sentence.

“Please tell us what’s going on,” Prouvaire practically pleaded, “We want to help.”

“Can’t,” Grantaire sniffed, looking like she was holding back tears, “He…I gotta go back home to ‘im. I said ‘I do,’ now I’m stuck wi’ tha’ bastard.”

“Can’t you get a divorce?” Courfeyrac asked softly, sadness weighing down her voice.

“D’vro…Divorce needs dough,” Grantaire answered with a very bad attempt at a crooked smile that ended up looking more like a terrible grimace.

“What?” Bossuet said, partly in surprise and partly in uncertainty that she’d understood Grantaire’s garbled speech.

“Money. Cash. Don’t ‘ave enough.” Grantaire continued.

“You don’t have to live with him, though,” said Enjolras in horror, with the beginnings of a passionate feminist rant building in her tone, “That’s just…sick. If he’s doing this to you, you deserve a way out.”

“God knows ‘ve tried to leave,” Grantaire said, finally tearing her gaze from where it had been resolutely aimed at the floor and allowing herself to meet Enjolras’ eyes. “Where’d I go?”

“Any of us would let you stay with them, Grantaire,” Feuilly answered, glancing around the table to make sure that everyone else was in agreement, “No one would deny that to you.” Addressing the others, she said, “Someone needs to take her home, at least for tonight. When she’s sober, we can negotiate this with her, but right now we can’t leave her here.”

“I will,” Enjolras volunteered, to everyone’s surprise. All heads, including Grantaire’s, turned towards her. Enjolras shrunk a little under the shocked stares of the rest of the group and continued, “My and Combeferre’s apartment is the closest to here, and the two of us can get her there fairly easily. Is that alright?” She looked to Combeferre, who nodded in silent agreement.

Enjolras rose from her seat and walked over to Grantaire, who was watching her warily. “Come on, Grantaire, let’s get you out of here.” Grantaire shrank back from Enjolras, averting her eyes, and Enjolras sighed sharply. She put out her hand and said, “Let me help you up, or I’ll do it myself.” Grantaire stood then, but quickly lost her balance and fell over, knocking into Enjolras’ chest. Enjolras caught her and held her there, then looked over at Combeferre, who was still sitting.

“A little help here?” said Enjolras shortly. “Let’s go now. There’s no point staying here any longer. As Bahorel said, we’re getting nothing done.”

Combeferre rose to assist her, and together they escorted Grantaire out of the speakeasy, saying goodbye over their shoulders. The rest sat at the table for a moment, not sure how to process what they had just seen.

“The fucking scumbag!” Bahorel eventually cried out, summing up their feelings fairly accurately. “If I knew where he lived…”

“You know what?” Courfeyrac asked, shell-shocked, “I was giving her a hard time for drinking so much earlier this week, but if I had a piece-of-shit husband like hers, I would probably be that drunk too.”

“I wish I’d known…” whispered Prouvaire dejectedly, “We could have done something.”

“Well, now we can,” Bahorel said decisively, standing up, “But not right now. I think we all need a rest.” The others nodded in agreement, and one by one, they left the speakeasy, heading towards their respective homes. It had been a long day, and the way things were going, the next one would be even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, this fic got a lot more serious rather quickly. I hope that wasn't too jarring? Also, much longer. Sorry.
> 
> On a lighter note, I finally managed to find an excuse for Bahorel to be assigned to the stamp! (If you don't know that joke, go watch the The Young Revolutionaries DVD extra. It's spectacular.)


	6. Chapter 6

The intoxicating smell of the fresh bread under her arm taunted Combeferre as she leapt up the stairs to her and Enjolras’ apartment, two steps at a time. It was a Sunday morning tradition of theirs to get a good loaf of fresh bread as a treat to share, and Combeferre liked getting up with the sun and crossing the street to the bakery to get it. Enjolras was not always awake when she left, as was the case on this particular Sunday, and Combeferre was already imagining waking Enjolras up when she walked into the apartment.

As it turned out, Enjolras had woken up in the minutes between Combeferre’s departure and arrival. She had pulled up a chair next to their sofa, where Grantaire was lying, completely passed out. Grantaire had been lucid enough the previous night to walk herself back to the apartment, but the second she had laid down she had fallen fast asleep and not moved since. A book resting against the chair leg told Combeferre that Enjolras had sat down with the intention of studying for a class. But Enjolras had abandoned the book and now sat with her head in her hands, staring contemplatively at the sleeping form of Grantaire.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asked, curious to know what could be interesting enough about Grantaire to make Enjolras abandon her copy of John Locke’s _Two Treatises of Government_.

“Combeferre! You have the bread!” Enjolras greeted her, reaching up and pulling a chunk of bread from the end of the loaf. Biting into it absentmindedly, her gaze flicked back to Grantaire and she said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“I can tell,” Combeferre replied, trying not to sound muffled through her own mouthful of delicious bread. “What are you thinking about?”

“I was wondering why Grantaire would put herself at such risk to be a part of our movement when I wasn’t even sure she agreed with our ideals at all,” Enjolras replied. Combeferre contemplated telling her that she and the other _amies_ had already had this conversation, but instead responded, “What did you come up with?”

“Well, what I’ve learned about her husband explains a lot. It’s natural that she would want a way out of her frankly pretty shitty home life, and we came by at the right time, I suppose,” Enjolras said, eyes never leaving Grantaire. The nasty bruise that covered her face had turned ugly shades of yellow-green but the swelling had receded. “She always mocks us when we try to tell her that women have a chance at being equal to men, but I’m sure she wants to believe it.”

“I’m sure she does,” agreed Combeferre, admittedly impressed that Enjolras had paid attention to what parts of their ideology Grantaire agreed with and disagreed with most. But she was even more surprised when Enjolras’ brow furrowed and she continued, “That’s not all of it, though.”

“No?” Combeferre asked, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, Combeferre,” Enjolras said sharply, directly meeting Combeferre’s questioning gaze. “There are a million feminist groups she could join. Bigger ones where she could blend in better and not get called out on her cynicism by us. Why us?”

“We’re her friends now,” Combeferre suggested, a little uncomfortable. Enjolras seemed to be getting closer to the points that had let the other _amies_ to draw their conclusion about Grantaire’s motives. It was one thing to speculate about romantic drama with them and quite another to tell Enjolras that her friend might just be in love with her. The latter had considerably more troubling repercussions, given Enjolras’ tendency for tactlessness. Enjolras didn’t seem to notice Combeferre’s uneasiness, and sighed deeply. She had gone back to intently watching Grantaire’s face.

“We - _I_ haven’t made it very easy for her to stay with us, haven’t I?” she asked softly, with a regretful tone that communicated very clearly that she already knew the answer. Combeferre sighed and retrieved another chair, pulling it up next to Enjolras.

“You didn’t know. None of us knew what was going on. We can fix it now,” Combeferre assured Enjolras, who only looked into Combeferre’s eyes and asked another question.

“She’s not going to let us help her, is she?”

Combeferre thought back to Grantaire’s wail of protest at Joly’s mere suggestion of assistance and shook her head. Enjolras pressed her lips into a tight line of frustration.

“We have to find a way. We can’t just go on with our lives as though we didn’t know any of this. Do you want to know something, ‘Ferre?” Enjolras continued to speak, preventing Combeferre from commenting, “Grantaire told me once or twice that no matter how much I talked, I wasn’t really changing the lives of the poor women who needed the help. And I guess in her case, she was right. She’s been trapped in an abusive relationship for years and no one did a thing to help.”

“She pushed anyone who would help her away,” reminded Combeferre gently. Experienced eyes noted Enjolras’ hunched shoulders and a nearly invisible twitching at the corners of her mouth. It pained Combeferre to see the energetic and optimistic Enjolras so dejected, so she looped one arm around Enjolras’ shoulder and repeated, “We can fix this.”

“If she lets us,” Enjolras insisted. Combeferre didn’t have any rebuttal for that, and could only reply, “We’ll see when she wakes up. Then we can talk to her about it.”

“It’s going to be quite the day,” murmured Enjolras, and Combeferre didn’t disagree.


	7. Chapter 7

“No.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. The talk with Grantaire was going about as well as she had expected - that is to say, terribly. Grantaire had woken up disoriented and confused, but when the situation had been explained, she had immediately began to passionately strike down any attempt at help either Enjolras or Combeferre gave. Enjolras knew that Grantaire’s contrariness was due to insecurity and fear, but couldn’t help suspecting that Grantaire was being severely annoying on purpose. She stamped out the thought and tried again.

“Grantaire. I know I can’t _make_ you do anything. But I don’t see why we can’t make things just a bit easier for you,” Enjolras tried, making her voice sound as passive and consoling as she could. Being Enjolras, there was only so much passivity she could convincingly portray, but at least she could say she had made an effort.

“It’s none of your business, that’s why! I don’t need your charity,” snapped Grantaire, who was pacing anxiously around the small apartment. The only thing that had prevented Grantaire from leaving the apartment entirely was the fresh bread that Combeferre had brought from the bakery. Enjolras had always admired Grantaire’s prominent cheekbones, but she had never really paid attention to how _thin_ Grantaire was. Grantaire had stared longingly at the fresh bread and took painfully small bites once a generous slice was given to her. For some reason, this deeply bothered Enjolras, pushing her to insist that Grantaire stay and at least hear them out.

Combeferre interjected, “Of course you don’t _need_ us to help you. But we really do want to. If you’d just let us _help_ -“

“I _told_ you,” spat Grantaire with a cornered-animal gleam of fear in her eyes, “I got myself into this, and I don’t need anyone to get me out of this! I-“

Something snapped inside Enjolras, and before she knew exactly what she was doing, she cried, “ _Grantaire_!” Enjolras supposed she had meant the call to sound commanding, but what came out of her mouth was almost a wail of distress. It had definitely grabbed the attention of Combeferre and Grantaire, who were staring at her with varied degrees of confusion and surprise. It took a couple of moments for Enjolras to consciously realize what had caused her own outburst, and when she caught up with herself, she felt a sudden pang of sadness.

Looking Grantaire straight in the eye, she said softly, “You blame yourself.” When Grantaire’s gaze dropped to the ground and she made no reply, Enjolras continued, “Don’t. Please. You have every right to be as happy as anyone else.”

At that, Grantaire automatically grimaced, and Enjolras knew that she had guessed correctly. “I still don’t know everything about you or your husband. But no one deserves to be mistreated just because they’re married and they’re told that that makes you - uh, _them_ inferior.” Grantaire smirked at Enjolras’ slipup, but Enjolras couldn’t be bothered to feel offended. Grantaire’s present silence was infinitely better than the pained hostility with which she had rebutted Enjolras and Combeferre. Enjolras looked over to Combeferre to make sure she hadn’t committed any egregious mistakes, but was only met with a small smile, sad but approving. Then Combeferre glanced to make sure that Grantaire wasn’t looking and mimed something with her hands. After a moment, Enjolras recognized the gesture as a hug. She looked back over to where Grantaire was standing in the middle of her living room, loose curls of black hair falling onto her face and every movement of her body telegraphing a clear message of misery, and understood.

Enjolras took a tentative step towards Grantaire to test the waters. Grantaire only looked up and met Enjolras’ eyes incredulously, but made no move to step away. Taking care not to move too quickly and risk spooking Grantaire, Enjolras closed the gap between them and pulled Grantaire into her arms.

The tension in Grantaire’s muscles melted away, and Grantaire’s arms slowly wrapped themselves around Enjolras’ neck. Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s heart racing in double time against her chest. It was a long time before Grantaire said anything. When she did, her voice betrayed a slight wobble, but neither Enjolras nor Combeferre mentioned it.

“I can’t hide from him forever,” Grantaire murmured into Enjolras’ shoulder, so faintly that Combeferre had to strain to hear her.

“You don’t have to hide from him forever,” Enjolras replied gently, mainly for Combeferre’s benefit.

“But let your bruises heal before risking new ones,” Combeferre added.

“Okay,” Grantaire said, pulling away from Enjolras and giving them tenuous smiles. She could not hide her wince as the smile pulled at her bruise, and god, there was significance to the bruise making it impossible for her to smile. Enjolras felt a sharp stab of sorrow.

“Do you want some ice for that bruise?” Enjolras asked.

“No, no, no thanks,” Grantaire hurried to decline, “I’m sorr--“

“Don’t be sorry,” Combeferre interrupted her, “Sit down. I’ll make us some tea.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire repeated, seating herself on the sofa and staring at the floor. Her smile was warm, her posture was relaxed, and her thanks seemed genuine. Enjolras slid onto the couch next to Grantaire and picked up _Two Treatises_ from the floor.

“I don’t know what there is for you to occupy yourself with while you’re here,” Enjolras said, finding her bookmark within the pages of the book, “But I seem to remember you having strong opinions on Locke’s faith in the majority.”

Grantaire watched Enjolras for a moment to check if she was seriously offering to have a political debate. She was, and tried to make it clear though a sincere smile. Deciding that her opinion was indeed being consciously asked for, Grantaire leaned forward and energetically began explaining her doubts concerning the theory of the social contract.

As always, Enjolras soon began to find disagreements with Grantaire’s logic. But Grantaire could always bounce right back with a comeback, and Enjolras had to stretch herself to come up with new defenses. Their cups of tea grew cold on the coffee table as they flitted from topic to topic, becoming more animated in their debate. Grantaire and Enjolras had never had a one-on-one debate before - they had only discussed political issues in group meetings and Grantaire’s voice had a tendency of getting lost among the others’. But with her full attention on Grantaire’s argument, Enjolras found herself swayed by Grantaire’s positions and impressed by her rhetoric. What she had previously dismissed as mere cynicism, Enjolras now found came, more often than not, from a rougher and tougher personal experience than she was used to.

Some hours and seven subject matters later, Enjolras found herself beginning to hope that this would be the first of many such discussions with Grantaire. And perhaps that what swayed her to catch Grantaire’s arm when she tried to leave again at dusk and demand that she stay the night.

“How can you leave if I haven’t finished telling you about Mary Wollstonecraft yet?” Enjolras explained with a joking smirk.

“An excellent point. But I don’t have a change of clothes with me,” Grantaire said more seriously.

“Weak excuse. Between Combeferre and I, we can find something for you. Right?” she called to Combeferre. Combeferre stuck her head out from inside the kitchen, where she was doing the chores that Enjolras had abandoned in favor of arguing with Grantaire, and nodded in agreement.

“Perfect. See? Not a problem. Come on, I need to get to bed. I have class in the morning,” Enjolras declared. Grantaire shook her head and chuckled quietly at Enjolras’ humorous mood.

“I need to go to work tomorrow morning too,” Grantaire agreed, “So good night, I guess. Combeferre, are you going to bed?”

“I have to do the dishes, but then I will,” Combeferre answered from the kitchen. “Good night, both of you.”

Enjolras went into her bedroom, leaving Grantaire to sleep on the couch (she had thought of offering Grantaire her own bed, but decided that that would be a bit much). It had been a long day, and Enjolras fell right asleep, still thinking eagerly of issues to discuss with Grantaire the following morning. 


	8. Chapter 8

It took a surprisingly short time for the three women to fall into a comfortable pattern. Combeferre and Enjolras soon grew used to the sight of Grantaire sprawled across their couch, scribbling down drawings of everything that caught her eye. If Combeferre noticed that the subject of her sketches was often Enjolras, she didn’t mention it.

It was almost a week later, when the swelling on Grantaire’s face allowed her smiles to reach her eyes, that Grantaire made a request.

“I’m really grateful to you for all of what you’ve lent me, but I need to go back to my joint and get my stuff out of there. Can one of you come with me?”

“What do you need from us?” Combeferre asked in return, “If you need someone to help you carry heavy things, that would be my job. If you need someone to punch out your husband while you make your escape, Enjolras is your gal.”

Grantaire looked caught between horror and amusement at that mental image, answering, “I really don’t have all that much to carry.” She didn’t say, “I need moral support and strength in case of a worst-case scenario,” but that was what came across. So Enjolras stood and said, “I’ll get my coat and we can go now.”

“If we leave right, right now, we might get to the tenements before… before Francis comes home,” Grantaire said doubtfully, “But I can’t count on it.”

So Enjolras threw on her coat (slipping a knife into the pocket, just in case) and hurried down the apartment building staircase, Grantaire behind her. Enjolras was burningly curious as to what job Francis might have that would make his time of arrival at the house so uncertain, but didn’t ask. Grantaire had many sensitive topics that she refused to talk about, and Enjolras was only just beginning to realize how important not agitating Grantaire was to her. So she kept her silence out on the streets and through the subway ride to the Lower East Side, where most of the tenements were.

Enjolras had expected Grantaire’s housing to be dingy and miserable, but she still hadn’t been nearly prepared enough for what she found there.

“We were lucky to get a tenement building with indoor plumbing, so don’t make that face,” Grantaire said with heavy sarcasm, noticing Enjolras’ nose twitch as she breathed in the smell of mold, grime and general decay. Though the weather outside was bright and sunny, the rooms were dark, and Enjolras had to take care to step around the clutter littering the floors. Grantaire disappeared into a side room and came out with what looked like a laundry hamper. She put the hamper in the middle of the room and began to toss random items into it.

“Enjolras, can you take my clothes out of the top shelf of that dresser and put them in here?” Grantaire asked, expertly tossing a belt into the hamper from the doorway. “Ha!” she cried in delight. “Enjolras! You try!”

“Okay,” Enjolras shrugged. She reached into the dresser and pulled out a pair of shoes. She frowned, appraising the hamper, and tossed one shoe. It missed.

“Oh!” Grantaire cried triumphantly, obviously putting much more emotional energy into the informal basketball competition than Enjolras was. She hopped over boxes and papers to the hamper, grabbed the shoe, ran back to where Enjolras was standing, and threw the shoe again. It soared directly into the basket. Enjolras had to admit that she was fairly impressed.

“I’m impressed,” she admitted, handing the remaining shoe over to Grantaire to throw. While Grantaire tried to get it into the basket over her shoulder, Enjolras slid Grantaire’s clothes out of the dresser and gently laid them into it. She couldn’t help asking, “Is this all your clothing?”

“Yup,” Grantaire affirmed. Enjolras recognized all of the outfits, and realized that Grantaire probably owned no more than 5 dresses total. And only 2 pairs of shoes, apparently. She chastised herself for not having noticed how little Grantaire really owned. She was about to offer that Grantaire keep the shirt and skirt that Combeferre had lent her when Grantaire’s laugh bubbled into oblivion and her face froze in horror.

“What-“ Enjolras began to ask, but Grantaire frantically waved her arm in a silent plea for silence. Enjolras listened closely and heard what Grantaire had caught first - a scrabbling of a key in the keyhole and a sharp mumble of frustration from the hall. Grantaire had been in the act of winding back to throw a sewing kit into the hamper, but her arm stayed behind her head and the sewing kit fell from her fingers. Enjolras bent to pick it up and murmured, “Let’s keep our cool. Stand our ground. What do you say?”

Grantaire appeared to have overcome her initial fear, and her mouth had tightened into a hard line of determination. “Sounds like a plan.” Her voice was strong, even if it was somewhat hushed. Then the door opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turned out that the Francis chapter got so long that I needed to split it. Part 2 is already written and is coming soon!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Part 2 to the previous chapter. Also, I named Francis to intentionally be similar to France. Not really metaphorically resonant, but still.

The man who Enjolras could only assume was Francis stood in the doorway. Francis could best be described as a brute. The way he swaggered into the room screamed menacing, but Enjolras wasn’t the type to be afraid of raw aggression. Francis stopped in surprise at the sight of the two girls standing in the middle of the main room around a laundry hamper filled with clothing and odds and ends. Enjolras wrinkled her nose at the stench of alcohol that could be smelled even from feet away, and Francis seemed to sense her hostility towards him, because he scowled right back.

“What’re you doin’ in my house?” he grunted at her. It was a fair question.

“Enjolras is helping me pack my things,” Grantaire explained simply, continuing to pick up assorted objects from random places in the house and placing them into the hamper.

“Pack?” Francis asked, voice rising in wrath, “You goin’ somewhere, broad?”

Enjolras glowered in anger, but Grantaire seemed used to the derogatory language. Maintaining a façade of calm assuredness, she picked up a towel and asked Enjolras, “Do I need to take this?”

“Sure, why not?” Enjolras smiled. This show of friendship seemed to aggravate Francis, and he made an attempt to assert himself.

“Who said you’re going anywhere?” he growled in Grantaire’s direction.

“I said so,” she replied, ignoring him and turning to Enjolras, “Do you think we’re done here?”

“It’s your stuff. You’d know,” was Enjolras’ answer. Grantaire smiled and picked up the hamper, moving towards the door, but to leave she would have to pass by Francis. Realizing the position he was in, he made no effort to move. Grantaire stood in front of him, looking up directly into his eyes.

A silent standoff began, and Enjolras looked around the room one final time. Her eyes caught a flash of bright yellow on the floor, peeking out from under what looked like a men’s shirt. She picked it off and found herself looking at a sketch of a beautiful woman holding up a flag. Enjolras had never seen any of Grantaire’s artwork, even though she knew that she was an artist, and she gasped slightly as she realized two things: one, that the quick sketch showed an astonishing amount of artistic ability, and two, that the sketch bore an unmistakable resemblance to herself.

Grantaire looked over to see what Enjolras was doing and froze when she saw Enjolras picking up the portrait of herself. Her affectation of detachment slipped, and Francis took his chance. Francis shoved Grantaire to the side and stalked over to Enjolras, who jumped up to face him, still holding the sketch.

“Who d’you think you are, coming into my house and taking my property?” Francis bellowed. Enjolras took a moment to realize that he was talking about both Grantaire’s things and Grantaire herself. Her lip curled in disgust as she answered.

“I am here for Grantaire. It has nothing to do with you. I plan to help Grantaire leave this disgusting household any way I can. Get out of my way or I’ll have to use the knife I brought.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of a knife, but it only made Francis more furious. Before he could retaliate, Enjolras called over his shoulder to Grantaire, “Don’t you want to take some drawings? Art supplies?”

Grantaire hesitated. To tell Enjolras that she wanted to leave now would mean to acknowledge to her husband that she feared him. To drop the hamper in favor of picking up more might give Francis the opportunity to take it and refuse to let her leave. So she answered, “I’ve not got much, just some pencils and newsprint on the desk. Get them for me?”

Enjolras ducked under Francis’ arm, which had swiped towards her, and nearly avoided tripping over another clothing item in a dash towards the desk. She grabbed the pencils and a sharpener in one hand and a pile of newsprint in the other.

Francis snarled out a stream of expletives, but Enjolras met Grantaire at the door and the two hurried out, leaving him behind. Grantaire let out a bubbling stream of nervous laughter.

“Well! That was something,” she gasped in delight, winded by her mad dash down the rickety staircase. Enjolras threw her arm around Grantaire’s shoulder on a whim and gave her a tight squeeze.

“You did it!” she grinned in delight, “You stood up to him!”

“That was mostly you,” Grantaire said. Enjolras noticed that a blush was visible on Grantaire’s cheeks, and wondered at the cause. Her gaze was fixed on the sketch that Enjolras was still holding, and Enjolras handed it over.

“You’re really good at art,” Enjolras told her.

Grantaire rolled her eyes, her blush deepening. “Let’s get this hamper back to your apartment,” Grantaire replied, picking it up and resolutely ignoring the compliment.

On the subway back home, Grantaire interrupted a long period of silence with the quiet statement, “I wish I could have done more to him. Really given him a piece of my mind.”

Enjolras watched Grantaire’s face, lined with fatigue and still blue from bruises. “You did your best, Grantaire,” she assured her, patting her hand. Her hand stayed on top of Grantaire's the whole ride back home.


	10. Chapter 10

Grantaire picked her way through the speakeasy, making her way towards the habitual meeting table of the _amies_. Her mind was elsewhere, but she had followed this exact path through the speakeasy so many times that she didn’t need to pay any attention to walk down it. However, the sight of two strange faces at the table brought her back to earth.

"Hey y'all, it's 'Taire!" Maria Pontmercy cried, waving frantically in her direction. Grantaire couldn't be bothered to be annoyed at the pet name; her attention was focused on the man sitting right next to Pontmercy. The man's eyes kept flicking back to Pontmercy, and Grantaire realized that he had to be the boyfriend that she wouldn't shut up about.

"Hey," Grantaire replied, sliding into an empty chair.

"No Enjolras today?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Nah, she and 'Ferre have final exams for college," Grantaire explained. She thought to herself that it was probably for the best that Enjolras wasn't able to come. Not only had Pontmercy shown up, but she'd brought a _boy_ to their feminist meetings, and Grantaire didn't feel like dealing with Enjolras in that situation. Even though the rest of the _amies_ were probably thinking the same thing, no one voiced their thoughts aloud. Pontmercy wasn't _that_ bad.

"Grantaire, is it?" The boyfriend asked her. "I'm Maria's man. My name's Cos."

"Cos?" Grantaire asked, arching an eyebrow. "You don't look like a Cos." The boyfr- Cos looked far too much of a dandy to have a name like that. She was proved right by Cos' uneasy laugh and response:

" _Well_ , as a matter of fact, my full name's Euphrais, but it's a bit too weird, so I go by Cos."

"No name is too weird for us," Joly snorted.

"Have you _met_ all of us yet?" Bossuet asked, holding in a chuckle of her own. "Trust us, we have weirder names."

"Anyways!" Pontmercy looked even more excited than usual, and seemed to be bursting with excitement. "I was just telling the others some _important news_!"

"Well, what's the news?" Grantaire asked in response to Pontmercy's expectant look.

"Cos n' I are getting engaaaaged!" Pontmercy squealed, showing off a sparkling ring.

"Oh yeah?" Prouvaire asked in surprise.

"Yes, we are," Cos replied, "It's actually rather funny. We're getting married, but do you know what I do for a living?"

"I don't think we do," said Bahorel with a chuckle. It was admittedly funny that Pontmercy had never mentioned Cos' profession in all her lovestruck rants about him.

"I'm a lawyer and I specialize in divorces," Cos told them.

Grantaire’s head snapped up so fast that she pulled a muscle in her neck.

"You slay me!" Bossuet cried in amusement, missing the scene taking place behind her. Grantaire massaged the side of her neck and cursed under her breath, both at the pain and that she had attracted the attention of all the rest of the _amies_ (except Bossuet, of course). Even Cos had figured out, between Grantaire’s visceral reaction and the concern on her friends’ faces, that something was up. He said nothing, only raising an eyebrow questioningly. Pontmercy, however, was less tactful.

“What is it, ‘Taire?” she asked innocently. Grantaire winced, her hopes that she would be able to pretend that that hadn’t happened dashed. Then again, maybe Cos could help her out in some way. So she answered, terse and through gritted teeth.

“My husband is a palooka and a boozehound and I was thinking of dropping the pilot, so to speak, but I don’t have the cash.”

“Hmm,” Cos said seriously, “Do you think that you have grounds for divorce that would hold up in court?”

Grantaire sighed sharply and wordlessly pointed at her own face. The bruise was almost gone by now, but judging by the sad comprehending look on Cos’ face, the point had been made. Grantaire clenched her teeth harder at the wave of self-loathing that washed over her as she registered the pity with which Cos was looking at her, but bit down a sarcastic dismissal with effort.

Grantaire was rewarded for her restraint when Cos said after a moment, “If you’d like, you can come to my office sometime and we can make that happen. There are ways to waive fees and streamline the process that can make getting divorced quite cheap. It’s not that hard if you know what you’re doing, and I definitely do.”

Grantaire could not help herself from beaming with delight. “I’d like that. Do I have to bring my husband along?”

“No, you don’t,” Cos said, “Call me later tonight and we can set up a meeting time. I don’t have my calendar on me.”

“That sounds like the cat’s pajamas,” Grantaire answered exuberantly.

Cos smiled brightly back at her and said, “Then it’s a deal.” He turned to the others then, continuing, “So, girls, you were just telling me about the pay gap between genders?”

Combeferre began an impassioned speech on the injustices she and the others were seeing in their workplaces, but Grantaire was not listening to a word of it. After years of suffering in silence, within the space of a few days, she was suddenly seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. With Cos’ help, maybe she could be free of Francis after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad for making Marius/Maria sound kind of like a dick, but she's quite alright, just a bit annoying to the Amies. I also like to imagine that a male version of Cosette would have a job where he felt like he could help people in need, like, say, a lawyer.


	11. Chapter 11

“Where's Grantaire?" Enjolras asked, tapping her fork anxiously on the side of her plate. Something had obviously been bugging her for a while, but Combeferre had been unable to figure it out until she asked the question.

"She should have been back from work hours ago," Enjolras continued, looking towards the door.

"She didn't tell you?" Combeferre asked, surprised, "She said she'd be home by dinner, but she's a bit late."

She was about to tell Enjolras what Grantaire had been out doing when the fast patter of footsteps came from outside and the woman herself swept through the door. Enjolras spun around in her chair and cried, "Grantaire! Where've you been?"

"I didn't want to say because I didn't know if it would really happen but I did everything with Cos and it's done!" Grantaire babbled excitedly, still panting from her run.

"Who's Cos? What's done?" Enjolras asked, absorbing some of Grantaire's energy.

"Cos is Maria's fiancé," Combeferre explained as Grantaire caught her breath and rummaged through the bag slung over her shoulder. "He's a lawyer, right?"

"Yes, he is!" Grantaire said breathlessly, carefully pulling out an envelope from her bag. She practically skipped over to the table where the two others stood, sliding a piece of paper out of the envelope. She then handed the paper to Enjolras, who scanned it quickly and widened her eyes in shock.

"Initial Petition of Divorce?" Enjolras read out, "Grantaire, is this what I think it is?"

Grantaire nodded her head energetically. Combeferre grinned at her as she realized that she had never seen Grantaire this happy before. Enjolras looked equally delighted.

"Grantaire, that's GREAT!" Enjolras squealed, jumping up to her feet. As if on an impulse, she pulled Grantaire into a tight hug. Grantaire immediately stiffened in surprise, and Enjolras backed off somewhat reluctantly.

"Uhm," Grantaire said, regaining her composure, "Thanks! There's also a form I need to send to Francis, and an aff-i-dav-it to get the costs reduced, but Cos was really really helpful, so it's happening!"

"Good for you!" Combeferre agreed. Enjolras was still standing around a bit awkwardly, so Combeferre continued, "Do you need to get Francis to agree?"

Grantaire grimaced, answering, "If I don't want to blow through all my savings in court fees, yeah. But I added a letter to the form to try to convince him that settling out of court will make this easier for everyone, so that might work."

"I hope it will," Enjolras said with a sigh. Combeferre didn't say that while she hoped so too, she doubted that Francis would cooperate. Looking at the beaming Enjolras and Grantaire, she couldn't bear to bring down their happiness. Anyways, everything might work out perfectly fine.

 

Some nights later, Grantaire lay in bed, staring at the shadowy ceiling. She couldn't go forward in the divorce proceedings until Francis returned his form to the city, and as far as she knew, he hadn't yet. She was so anxious that every time the apartment building creaked, she jumped and stared at the door until she assured herself that she had imagined it.

A particularly strong thump sent Grantaire leaping out of bed, hand groping for her pistol. She was just about to laugh at herself for being paranoid when a second thump came clearly into the room, then shuffling and the click of a lock. Cocking the pistol, she pressed against the door for a moment before bursting through and training her gun at the figure slipping through the entryway.

"Francis, get the fuck out of here," Grantaire hissed. Francis stepped forward into a shaft of moonlight, flipping a knife over his knuckles.

"You won't shoot me," Francis whispered with a cruel grin.

"I will not let you put my friends in danger," Grantaire continued. She stepped to the left, and Francis circled around her like a wolf. He stopped, with his back facing Enjolras and Combeferre's bedroom door - just as Grantaire had planned.

"I won't let you leave," Francis growled in response. Alcohol slurred his speech almost imperceptibly, but Grantaire was very well acquainted with the sound. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"I can do whatever I want, and if you hurt my friends I will call the cops," Grantaire said, "I have power over you, not the other way around."

Francis gripped the knife tightly in his fist, and growled, "Bitch."

"That's all you've got?" Grantaire taunted him, "What, are you scared that your scummy mob'll laugh at you because you can't keep a woman down?"

Francis snapped and lunged at Grantaire, who easily avoided him. As he overbalanced and slammed to the ground, the bedroom door behind him popped open slightly.

"Can't let you get blood on Combeferre's favorite rug," Grantaire laughed, dodging a knife swipe. A quickly stifled chuckle came from the bedroom, and Grantaire grinned. Heartened, she swung at Francis with the butt of her pistol, but the blow glanced off of his arm and he made another lunge at her. This one hit, and Grantaire cursed loudly.

"Need some help, Grantaire?" Enjolras asked, throwing the door open with one hand and taking the cork off the tip of a knife with the other. Combeferre was right behind her, wielding not one but two tiny muff pistols.

"We've got him covered," Combeferre smiled at Grantaire reassuringly. Enjolras leaned her head in the direction of their telephone. Grantaire kept her pistol trained on Francis, who was struggling under the restraining feet of Enjolras and Combeferre, as she walked towards the phone. Locking eyes with Francis, who glowered furiously at her, she held the receiver to her ear.

"Hello?" Grantaire said calmly, "I need the police. There's been a break-in."


	12. Chapter 12

"Thank you, your Honor," Grantaire said, bowing her head. The judge gave her a kindly smile.

"It's all done, ma'am - or, should I say, miss," the judge told Grantaire. He then banged on his gavel and called, "The court is now dismissed!"

Grantaire heaved a sigh of relief, and looked up to find Cos walking towards her with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, she could also see Francis's guards leading him away, presumably back to prison.

"Congratulations!" Cos yelled out, clapping his hands. Grantaire looked away from Francis and grinned back at him. She was about to respond when her eyes fell on a face pushing through a small crowd of people and she froze. The blonde woman with the flushed cheeks and bright blue eyes could only be one person, but-

"Enjolras?" Grantaire gasped, "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

"Class can wait," Enjolras replied, "I wanted to be here."

Cos raises his eyebrows, looking back and forth between them. "Is this Enjolras?" he asked, "I've heard a lot about you."

"Yes, that's me. All good things, I hope?" Enjolras affirmed.

"Only the most glowing praise," Cos answered. "I need to be going, so nice meeting you."

"Nice to meet you too," Enjolras said with a smile, which she turned to Grantaire. "Now, Miss, let's get on home."

Neither mentioned the divorce the whole way home, instead talking about Grantaire's work and Enjolras' studies. It was only after they had sat down side by side on the couch that Enjolras leaned over and asked Grantaire, "So what're you going to do now that you've got your divorce?"

Grantaire tipped her head back and watched Enjolras' face. Enjolras was looking Grantaire straight in the eye, giving her a smirking smile. Grantaire let out a held breath in a shaky sigh.

"Something I've wanted to do for a long time," Grantaire murmured. Though she spoke softly, Enjolras was close enough to hear her clearly.

"Which is what?" Enjolras asked.

Grantaire took a deep breath and then slowly, to give Enjolras enough time to react, leaned up and pressed her mouth against Enjolras'. Instead of jerking away as Grantaire expected, Enjolras reached out her hand to pull Grantaire in closer. She then pulled back slightly to slide her lips to Grantaire's neck.

"Officially single?" Enjolras hummed into Grantaire's ear.

"Not for long, looks like," Grantaire answered in a barely audible rumble of content. She suddenly pulled back.

"Hold on, where's Combeferre?"

"Combeferre? Doesn't matter," Enjolras said, tugging playfully at Grantaire's collar. "Come on, Miss Grantaire, let's celebrate your divorce a bit."

Grantaire rolled her eyes teasingly and plunged back into a deep kiss. It was on the same couch, tangled together, that Combeferre found them later that night.

"Hello," Enjolras called in a voice too high to be casual, sliding off of Grantaire as Combeferre opened the door.

"Hey, gals!" Combeferre cried happily. She stopped in the doorway and smirked at Enjolras and Grantaire.

"Congratulations!" Combeferre said, coming over to clap Grantaire on the back.

"Thank you," Grantaire replied.

"No, no," Combeferre said, covering her hand with her mouth to hide a giggle, "Both of you."

"What?" Enjolras asked after a surprised silence.

"I'm in the kitchen if you need me," Combeferre giggled, "And Grantaire? You have lipstick on your neck." And with that enigmatic statement, she closed the door to the kitchen. Her giggles could still be heard over the clink of dishes in the kitchen, as well as an added, “At least they’re still wearing clothes.”

"Uh," said Enjolras.

"Okay then," Grantaire added uneasily.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Grantaire tilted her head to the side and asked, "How about we take her up on this opportunity to kiss some more?"

"I like this plan," Enjolras laughed, cupping Grantaire's cheek and kissing her with enthusiasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END! ....argh, I'm shitty at endings, so if I think of a better way to end this I might go back and add a bit more. Since I'm also shitty at writing romantic resolution, probably not. I hope you liked it!


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